


The Wild Bitterness (this is a man's world)

by ashheaps



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/ashheaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, things have started to suck for Ashlyn since the war ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wild Bitterness (this is a man's world)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flickings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flickings/gifts).



> 2/25/2013 - Just wanted to pop in and say thanks to everyone for reading this piece! In your, dear reader, honor, I have posted an EDITED version. Fewer typos! Sound grammar!

“The boys hit the beaches!” a greasy voice yells over the mechanical hum. Ashlyn doesn’t jump up immediately, finishes the motions before she looks over to the hubbub. Becky stoops to press her ear close to the radio in the corner of the workroom and straightens again to announce once more.

“Devastating to the Axis line! Just blasted!” she yells. Ashlyn huffs, rolls her eyes. She scoots the uncomfortable stool by the rungs with her booted feet. It’s her second week at the post and she doesn’t want to get behind on her quota.

She doesn’t think about the announcement again until Alex Morgan is chasing her car, waving her hands wildly. Ashlyn catches the movement in the rearview and commands her dad to stop. Alex thuds up against the passenger’s side window as Ashlyn’s rolling it down.

“They think it’s over. They think,” Alex pants, blends her words together without changing tones. “Hi Mr. Harris. They’re gonna come home. Real soon.”

Ashlyn sighs.

“Just get in,” Ashlyn gestures. Alex pivots to the backseat. She’s wearing a stiff blue dress and it looks gorgeous in the reflection of the silver sideview mirror.

“They were saying—”

“Who’s they?” Ashlyn interrupts, turning fully in her seat.

“You know, radio, it’s all, they’re sure. Almost sure,”

“No one,” Ashlyn speaks up, “Is sure.” Her dad eases off the brake. The car picks up, but there’s no one else around. The streetlights are flickering and dim, so feeble compared to the waning daylight.

“I think I’m sure. I’m, yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Alex buckles her seatbelt. Ashlyn’s dad takes a gradual right turn, but Ashlyn maintains her balance.

“We’ll see. Don’t believe everything you read.”

“I heard it!” Alex clarifies.

“All the more reason,” Ashlyn dismisses.

“Where’s your Can-Do spirit?” Alex asks. They turn into the driveway. Mr. Harris cuts the engine.

“Deployed,” Ashlyn deadpans. Alex humphs, shifts in her seat. “I’m sorry,” Ashlyn says, quickly. “I’m, sorry.”

“S’fine,” Alex scratches her forehead with her thumbnail. She wipes the corners of her mouth, fresh rouge.

“You could be right,” Ashlyn allows. Ashlyn’s dad applies the parking brake as Alex unbuckles the seatbelt, oblivious to the brief amount of time she needed it.

“I’m not the only one this time though,” Alex says quietly. Her voice barely breaks over the sound of the cicadas, even with the windows rolled up.

“Who else? Steven? Did Buck detail his naval attack strategies again?” Ashlyn teases. Alex’s eye widen, darting to Ashlyn’s dad, who’s climbing out of the car at the same time. Alex rolls her eyes only after she realizes Mr. Harris isn’t listening at all.

“No! And the nurses talk too, you know. They heard the late night broadcast at Normandy, pretty much live,” Alex brags. She’s a frequent brut of unwanted male attention at the veteran’s wing where she’s chosen to volunteer this summer with her Red Cross troupe. Well, allegedly unwanted.

Ashlyn opens the car door and Alex follows suit. When they get in the house, Ashlyn’s mom is setting out dinner. There’s an extra place setting for Alex, even though she’ll just watch and gab as everyone else chews.

“Glass of water?” Ashlyn checks, leaning over the open fridge.

“Can I have some milk, please?” Alex poises. Ashlyn’s dad cuts the faucet, dries his hands on the dishtowel.

“Anything you’d like, sweetheart,” he supplies, accent coming through.

“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” Alex says sweetly. Ashlyn settles down at the table to serve herself first, unzipping and tugging down the shoulders of her jumpsuit to hang around her torso.

“Such fervor,” Alex observes as Ashlyn takes the first helping of greens.

“Long day,” she says around the bite.

+

It doesn’t make sense until later that summer, when she’s at church with her parents. She’s in some strange introduction line, not paying attention. She’s fidgeting with her jacket sleeves, pulling at the too-short hems. She’s still growing, and she’s not the kind of girl who wears dresses unless there’s a distinct reason for it. She doesn’t even notice that her mother is talking to the head of the receiving line until she hears her own name.

“My Ashlyn will be starting her senior year at East!” she pats Ashlyn’s shoulder. It’s then that Ashlyn looks up, focuses with both her parents’ hands touching her back. Her parents are speaking to the group, welcoming them to the church. It’s a young woman, a younger boy who looks like her brother, and a weathered woman who is certainly the mother, standing close together in the annex. It’s then that she sees this girl.

Dark hair, looking up with a bright smile that seems far beyond her years. It then becomes obvious that she’s the mouthpiece, the one with the language skills to introduce her little family.

“Super,” dark-haired girl says. There’s a hint of an accent underneath, like she’s imitating an American voice. “Please say hello to me on the first day,” she adds.

“Sure,” Ashlyn squeezes.

“I’m Alexandra,” she nods her head, says her name with confidence. “Call me Ali!” she insists with solid flair.

“Neat,” Ashlyn manages. She moves along with her family, her mother bidding Alexandra’s mother peace and some kind of welcome. Ashlyn throws a glance over her shoulder and catches Ali watching her walk away. Ashlyn trips up, makes a loud display of catching her balance in her clunky church shoes. Another churchgoer cuts her line of sight to Ali, and when they’ve passed, Ali’s shaking the hands of an elderly couple.

“So tragic,” Ashlyn’s mother observes on their car ride home from service.

“What is?”

“That Krieger family, weren’t you listening?” Her mother accuses. Ashlyn briefly entertains explaining the thoughts that kept her preoccupied during the sermon, the weighted guilt and shame sitting on her diaphragm.

“No, sorry. What about them?”

“The father was killed in an air strike. Just a few months ago. They were granted permission to immigrate and everything and then, unexpectedly, everything changed,” her mother shakes her head. Her father steadily stops at a four-way.

“Ironic,” Ashlyn deadpans.

“Don’t talk like that. It’s a very awful story. It could be yours, had things worked out differently,” her mother sours.

“Mom, come on,” Ashlyn tries.

“No, you’re lucky. The drills you learn in school could be your reality, but not in America. That’s why we’re here,” she starts.

“Mom, please, don’t start-”

“You don’t respect me, Ashlyn. You don’t respect us, our family,” her mother says.

“That’s stupid,” Ashlyn scoffs.

“You can have a little sympathy for others. Not everyone is blessed as we are,” her mother snaps. Ashlyn folds her arms across her chest and knocks a button on her dress coat loose. The thread pulls out, holds the button at the tenuous loops. It makes a quiet popping sound, no one really hears it but Ashlyn.

“I want to work in the factory and quit school,” Ashlyn blurts out. This time, when her father stops the car, it’s not so much dutiful as it is alarming. She walks the rest of the way home from church, her stupid, too-small jacket holding back her ragged breath.

+

“My husband will be home at the end of the month,” Lucy says, voice unwavering. Ashlyn’s hearing goes fuzzy, like there’s an interference pattern worming through her head. She adjusts her trouser legs, pushes the fabric down over her knees. Emerging from the couch cushions, she sits up straighter. With her legs tucked under her body, Lucy looks like a child in prayer. In reality, she’s breaking it off with Ashlyn.

“You’ve been saying that all summer,” Ashlyn reminds. She tries to pick up her hands, but it doesn’t work. She just flops them back on her lap. Lucy reaches over, covers them with her own. It’s not a weighted gesture, like it had been that night at the bar.

Ashlyn had sweet-talked her way in, still made up from her spring dance, and still liquored up enough from it to think that sneaking into the lesbian bar in her town was a good idea. You can’t just walk out to the parking lot alone here, Lucy had intoned. It led to Lucy giving her a ride, to Ashlyn coming inside for a nightcap, to Ashlyn stealing the family car and sneaking out for nights like these where she touches Lucy like her hands mean something.

“You’ve been a wonderful companion, helping me through missing Biff,” Lucy sooths. Ashlyn scoffs, rolls her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says sarcastically, “A real gem.” Lucy either doesn’t get her attitude, or doesn’t want to entertain it. Ashlyn really wanted to get sweaty tonight. It’s the first Friday night of the new school year, and Ashlyn is officially withdrawn. It’s weird, an adjustment to daily life. But the conversation makes her sadder, knowing she’s not even going to get some action while a gaggle of her former classmates are making pep rally signs and swigging potato vodka from a flask. At least that’s what she tells herself as she kicks a rock down the sidewalk on the dejected journey back to her car.

“You understand,” she says as she pats the dashboard affectionately. “Ladies are allowed to change their minds.” Her car lurches. It’s enough of a response to please Ashlyn for the time being. The streets are empty; the houses are dim and camouflaged, thick curtains drawn and covered porch lights. It makes it easy for Ashlyn to push the pedal to the floor and chug home.

She does 50 sit ups with her feet shoved under the bed, trying to sweat out her hormones, trying to get her desires in check. She still takes a warm bath which begins with a book and ends with her fingers between her legs.

+

Ashlyn’s always had energy, always been described as a spitfire on report cards and at family gatherings. But something switched in her brain during the eighth grade. Maybe it had to do with the war, with the severity in which her parents explained that things would need to change. The drastic swing in their routine, from a life of comfort to regimented rations, made Ashlyn build some kind of dam inside her.

Since the war began, she’s been enjoying the invisibility that comes with chaos. Starting high school made her quiet, aching to go unnoticed in her simple dresses her mother made for her. She felt out of place in the halls, always ducking away from social opportunities and favoring the quiet of her room, the break of a sweat on her brow as she does calisthenics in her backyard at sunset.

The summer of Ashlyn’s freshman year, at a neighborhood potluck dinner, Alex Morgan strides up to Ashlyn and asks if she wants to play croquet instead of listening to the adults drone on about the economy. Ever since that night, they’ve been an easy pair, despite their slight age difference. Alex starts high school that fall, and Ashlyn begs her mother to sew her some slacks for her sophomore year. Alex, unlike most classmates, doesn’t even bat an eye when Ashlyn joins her in the cafeteria sporting pants.

+

Alex always wants to hang out at Ashlyn’s house on Saturdays, even though Alex’s house is the one with chests full of board games and an entire room devoted to the smoking of pipe tobacco. It usually begins with an idle game of badminton or something impish in the backyard. Then Ashlyn’s parents pester the girls to tend the garden or at least water the thing, so they end up playing broomstick hockey in the kitchen or making fools of themselves competing for the most creative way to dust the windowsills.

Alex is hanging off the side of the bed, watching Ashlyn tinker upside down. Ashlyn’s legs are splayed wide, an old bath towel on the floor, with a mess of radio parts in the canyon of her thighs.

“And Student Government this year is trying to organize committees and it’s such a mess. They want little leaders of tiny projects but like, we don’t need four people to write the morning announcement but we definitely need more than four people to set up and clean up the winter dance,” Alex explains.

“Ah, yeah,” Ashlyn grunts. She picks up the screwdriver and prods at a stuck gear.  
“This new student asked about you actually, this German girl,” Alex says suddenly. Ashlyn’s hand slips and she jams her finger in a crook.

“Shit, sorry,” Ashlyn flaps her hand.

“It’s weird not seeing you there,” Alex adds.

Ashlyn goes silent. She sucks on her nail of her finger, unsure if the tip is bleeding or just smarting.

‘’Stop!” Alex slithers off the bed to kneel beside Ashlyn. She takes her hand from her mouth and flexes it out, fingers nestled in Ashlyn’s palm. “See? No blood. Let’s get ice or just a cold compress,” Alex starts to stand.

Ashlyn pulls her back down.

“Was it Alexandra?” Ashlyn asks, quietly.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, you know her?” Alex drops Ashlyn’s hand. She’s so angelic though, folded in contrast to Ashlyn’s limbs akimbo.

“Not really,” Ashlyn admits. She shrugs. “We met at church.”

“That’s why she looked so familiar!” Alex realizes.

“Yeah,” Ashlyn fills. She wants to press for details, but doesn’t want to seem overeager.

“She’s in my math class. And my homeroom. And gym,” Alex punctuates.

“Great,” Ashlyn intones. She picks up some stray tools and lines them up in her kit.

“Everyone asks her about awful things. It’s so rude. To expect her to educate them,” Alex announces. The depth of Alex’s compassion has always amazed Ashlyn. Alex just isn’t like anyone else; she understands more than everyone gives her credit for.

“Another stunning example of why I wanted to leave,” Ashlyn levels. It slips out, so bitter.

“I wish I could still eat lunch with you,” Alex admits. She’s looking right at Ashlyn with soft eyes, that sincere and pointed proverbial gaze. Ashlyn can practically feel her heartbeat in her wrist. Ashlyn thinks about scarfing down her sack lunches, hunched over the break table outside the factory doors.

“That part I didn’t mind, so much,” Ashlyn says.

“I’m kind of hungry now, actually,” Alex suggests.

“Let’s see what we can find,” Ashlyn pulls her legs in and stands. She helps Alex, holds her hands delicately as she unfolds. Alex decides to go in for a hug, wraps her arms around Ashlyn’s frame. Ashlyn softens into it, returns the squeeze. She remembers her news, couched with Alex’s school matters providing a better conversation.

“I’m done with Lucy,” Ashlyn whispers. Alex is taken aback. She tilts her chin down.

“What happened?” Alex asks, treading lightly. When Ashlyn had told her, Alex wasn’t entirely supportive. But it didn’t matter, Ashlyn spared the details and rarely mentioned her affair with the married woman. Alex didn’t judge, just didn’t entirely approve.

“The surrender, I guess,” Ashlyn sighs. Alex scoffs at Ashlyn’s negativity and rolls her eyes.

  
“Where was her husband again?” she asks.

“I don’t know. On a ship somewhere,” Ashlyn dismisses. Alex follows her down the hall towards the kitchen. The house is empty with Ashlyn’s parents attending an anniversary luncheon for a family friend.

“Maybe he’s on the same ship as Henry,” Alex wonders aloud. Ashlyn hooks a hard right into the kitchen. She goes right for the fridge.

“Could be,” she dismisses. Alex hasn’t heard from Henry in upwards of six months. A family friend of the Morgans, Henry enlisted with Alex’s youthful encouragement. She was barely a teenager when the war began, what did she know. Ashlyn has always kept her distance from Alex’s airy affairs. She’s as chaste as they come, a perpetual flirt and an open book. When Alex cares, she cares deeply. But she does not love, does not surely believe in a mate for every soul. And such apprehension leads to idealism, and to the desire for distance. So Alex has been collecting her boys of war, always waiting for a dream returned, always hoping to be swept into the arms of some divine love. So far, nothing.

Alex stands in such stark contrast to Ashlyn’s reserved cynicism. But people pay attention to Alex; she’s a natural leader and is always made an example of. Alex’s friendship scared Ashlyn at first, like maybe she was trying to pull one over on Ashlyn. But several years later, still closer than sisters, Ashlyn has stopped worrying about Alex. She doesn’t need it. Alex shoulders all the sorrow of the world and Ashlyn has never been able to be that empathetic, to be that invested in something sure to let her down. She just can’t bring herself to tell Alex that there’s a great chance she might not see Henry ever again.

“Is that macaroni salad?” Alex chirps. Ashlyn’s reach backtracks to the covered ceramic bowl. She pulls back the lid.

“Bingo,” Ashlyn sings.

+

The factory lets her go in the middle of September. The thing that pisses Ashlyn off the most is that her boss waits until the end of the day before he calls her into his office. She doesn’t turn in her utility jumpsuit, just walks straight past her post and out to the bus stop. She slams the blunt of her fists down on the concrete bench, shouts a litany of colorful swears. She gets off at her usual stop, but instead walks right to Alex’s house. She can see her parents’ light on in the kitchen from Alex’s driveway, but she doesn’t want to face them yet. Doesn’t want to admit to anything.

Alex’s older sister answers the door.

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “Harris.”

“Hey, Jeri,” Ashlyn forces. It’s awkward. They should be classmates, but Ashlyn hasn’t really talked to anyone from school since she made the decision to withdraw. Even though their families are so close, they’ve never seen eye-to-eye; they just run in different circles. Ashlyn wants to forget Jeri throwing knowing glances between classes like maybe Alex had spilled some of Ash’s secrets. Ashlyn knows people talk about her, the stoic girl whose only friend is Jeri’s little sister.

Suddenly, Ashlyn’s embarrassed with her disheveled appearance. Jeri’s hair looks so perfect, soft interior lighting bouncing off her curls.

“S’Alex home?” Ashlyn asks, gaze to the doorframe.

“Yeah, sure,” Jeri murmurs. She steps to the side, opens the door wider. The Morgans are the only family Ashlyn knows with a television, and she’s never seen it switched on. Alex’s parents are sitting in their living room, a slew of papers and journals in their laps. A brilliant professor and his wealthy wife, Alex’s parents preferred such classical entertainment to the blistering media. But, dutifully, Ashlyn’s heartbeat slows comfortably with the soft ticking of their grandfather clock, the swift fold of worn book pages.

The clock fades as Ashlyn turns down the familiar hall to Alex’s bedroom. The door’s shut. Ashlyn tries the handle but it’s locked. She knocks, impatiently. Her sleeve on her jumpsuit pinches at her elbow where the fabric’s rolled in on itself. She starts to unroll it, but leaves it. She wants the full effect of a dejected unemployed butch when Alex opens the door.

“What’s with the get-up?” Alex says at first. She steps aside and Ashlyn sees her. The girl from church is perched on the edge of Alex’s bed. She looks slightly uncomfortable, but clenches the notebook and textbook in the lap of her crossed legs.

“Uh, you were right,” Ashlyn settles.

“Of course I was. But about what?” Alex hops on her bed. “Sit on the floor, you’re dirty,” Alex demands. Ashlyn clambers down, holds her knees loosely in the crook of her elbows.

“They’re really bringing the boys home,” Ashlyn tries.

“We’ve known this for weeks,” Alex starts.

“I, I mean, they’re bringing the factory boys home,” Ashlyn clarifies.

“Okay,” Alex draws out, confusion evident.

“I got canned,” Ashlyn huffs. She shifts her line of sight to the empty trash bin under Alex’s desk, glossed over.

“Oh,” Alex says, quietly. “I’m sorry, Ash,” she comforts. Ashlyn shakes her head, like she’s trying to let it go.

“I guess it’s really over,” she intones. Even though Ali’s silent, she starts to bat her eyelashes. Alex looks between both girls. Ash won’t make eye contact, just folds her body a little bit tighter knowing that this near-stranger shoulders some of her sadness. Maybe she feels weak, or maybe it’s just shame.

She thinks about the kids that’ve died over this, about her cousin Conrad who is still missing. She hates herself for forgetting that Ali’s dad is gone too, something even more senseless than her own dilemma. Her mom’s words from the middle of the summer ring through her thick head.

“It’s a new start,” Alex coos. She kneels down in front of Ashlyn and takes her into an unwilling hug. Ashlyn softens into it, self-conscious of the grease on her jumpsuit. She meets Ali’s eyes over Alex’s shoulder. If Ashlyn could pinpoint a moment in her life where she knew pure guilt, where she felt unaltered pity, it would be that moment where she traces the jealousy reflecting in the amber rings of Ali’s eyes.

+

Her parents don’t take the news as well. Ashlyn goes to her dad’s auto garage for a few weeks, gets better at maintaining the idea of working life with her prospects suddenly narrowed. After two fruitless weeks, Ashlyn can’t gel with the boys that work there, and her dad gives her a car to soothe the ache of that filtered rejection.

The first place she goes is the burger joint with Alex and Ali. Alex almost vaults over the seat when Ali reveals she’s never had a milkshake.

“How have you never had a milkshake?” Alex asks. “You don’t know what you’ve been missing. Oh Kriegs, prepare to have your life changed,” she gushes. Ashlyn’s perfecting her image, elbow hanging casually at the driver’s window while they wait for a server. There’s a speaker overhead playing music loudly, but it’s early enough in the evening that the high school crowd hasn’t made it out of the football game yet.

“You have nicknames, huh? What’s next?” Ashlyn fiddles with her earlobe. She wags her eyebrows at Alex, lifts her hips up quickly. It’s so lewd with her legs already splayed, a composite of slick sexuality, that the carhop politely diverts her path away from their vehicle and skates inside.

“Way to scare the girl,” Alex notes, a tinge of anger realizing she’ll have to wait even longer for her beloved milkshake.

“I’m not scared,” Ali pipes up. The two heads in the front seat whip around simultaneously.

“Not you, the girl,” Alex explains vaguely, flopping her hand in the air. “Wait, what? Why would you be scared?” Ali’s eyes shift back and forth.

“It’s, I’m not,” she pauses, looks directly at Ash. Ashlyn feels her ears redden, her throat go dry. She gets the sense that Ali’s referring to her suggestive movements, like maybe Ali wants to make a point where Ashlyn doesn’t want to go. They have a moment there, unconfirmed suspicions between them.

“I’m confused. I don’t care. I just want my milkshake,” Alex swivels again, cranes her head out the window.

Ashlyn’s too flustered to say much else until she has to order for the trio. The carhop sets up their tray soon after and brings an armful of hot food swiftly. Ali barely swallows her first sip before Alex turns in her seat again.

“Well? What do you think?” Alex asks.

“Yum!” Ali exclaims, comically.

“Is that your first hamburger too?” Alex asks eagerly.

“No,” Ali leads.

“Seriously, Alex? HAMBURG-er,” Ashlyn interrupts.

“What? Is it, do other countries have them?” Alex sounds genuinely miffed.

“HAMBURG. As in, HAMBURG,” Ashlyn says. Alex just looks at her. “Hamburg, Germany,” Ashlyn sings, condescending but playful.

“Oh, I, okay,” Alex settles back into her seat. “It was just a question.”

“It’s delicious,” Ali announces with her mouthful. “Best I have had!” Ashlyn pops a fry in her mouth and shakes her head as she chews.

“You don’t even have any catsup,” Alex notes. She turns back around to offer her plastic ramekin to Ali. “Dip it in. I don’t care if we share,” Alex says.

“I bet you’d love to share,” Ashlyn observes. Ali actually laughs out loud. Ashlyn tries not to blush as she bites into her burger. She drops some red catsup on her trousers.

+

Ashlyn drags herself out of bed to answer the doorbell as it dings over and over. Her parents must be out gardening, backs to the wind. Alex and Ali are coordinating in full skirts and knit sweaters.

“We don’t want to ride the yucky bus. Please please please take us to the department store,” Alex begs with her hands. Ashlyn combs at the tangle of bangs at her temple.

“I don’t want to go shopping,” Ashlyn moans.

“It’s for homecoming! We need some stuff. Please Harry Bear. I’m begging you,” Alex goes on.

“Absolutely never say that again,” Ashlyn deadpans, “And if you succeed, I will take you to the department store.”

“YES!” Alex yelps. She pushes at the door, lets herself inside. Ali follows. As she passes, Ashlyn can tell she’s wearing perfume, a scent she’s noticed on Alex before. It’s only then that she realizes Ali’s wearing Alex’s clothes. Her sweater, a soft pink, complements the hint of rouge brushed on her cheekbones. Ashlyn doesn’t want to care, but it’s too late. She takes a big, quiet breath.

At the department store, they walk three abreast through the wide aisles. Alex leads in the middle, guides them expertly to the hosiery.

“I don’t understand,” Ashlyn complains.

“It’s cute,” Alex responds. She doesn’t even turn to look at Ash; she’s too busy hovering her hands over the pairs of bobby socks on display. Ali’s hands are clasped at her waist, awkwardly holding her little rugged handbag.

Ashlyn sighs, digs her keys out of her peacoat pocket to fiddle with. She runs her thumb over the grooves on her house key, turns the edge to dig under her fingernails. She wedges the key under there, clearing out dirt and letting it fall. She raises her hand to her mouth, trims the nail with her teeth, and blows the edge to the floor. Suddenly there’s a harsh throat being cleared in her direction.

“Excuse me,” the employee says. Her nametag is dull in the yellow overhead lighting. “That is prohibited, Ma’am,” she bites. She says it with such discontent, making a point to downcast her eyes at Ashlyn’s boyish appearance. It’s a nasty gesture, tinged with a load of hatred that Ali might miss if she didn’t look up to catch the interaction a fraction of a second before Ashlyn takes off. Alex whizzes away in a flurry and Ali follows, eyeing the department store worker with earnest disgust before she turns.

Alex and Ali catch up with Ashlyn in front of an empty kitchen appliance department. Alex is still grasping the pairs of bobby socks, panting. Ashlyn’s trying to fight them, barreling towards the door.

“Hey, we’re going,” Alex orders. “We’re going. Just let me bring these back, and then we’re going,” she reasons. She gestures at the socks in her hand but Ashlyn grabs them and discreetly stuffs them into a secret pocket inside her coat.

“We’re going now,” Ashyln demands and breaks quickly for the closest exit. Alex looks around; they aren’t being followed or noticed. So she just grabs Ali’s hand, shoots her a panicked look, and leads her at a brisk pace out of the store.  
Alex slams the passenger-side door when she slides into the car.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Alex yells. Her voice is that porous kind of hoarse, strained and raspy. Ali climbs into the backseat silently. Even though the car is on, they don’t move.

“Back off,” Ashlyn hisses.

“You’re insane,” Alex scolds.

“That woman was a bitch,” Ashlyn retorts.

“Ashlyn,” Alex yips. It hangs in the air, a pregnant pause. Alex doesn’t assert herself often, so the tone shifts in her favor. “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” she asserts.

“Can it,” Ashlyn says in admonishment. “Hateful assholes don’t deserve my respect,” she tacks on.

“So what? She was rude to you. Be rude back, but don’t give her a reason to have you arrested,” Alex argues back.

“Fine,” Ashlyn concedes. But it’s not a genuine surrender. She shifts the car into reverse and starts to back out without looking. A loud foreign horn and Ali’s terrified yelp resound simultaneously, and the offending car swerves just out of range of Ashlyn’s bumper. She slams the brakes into the floorboard. All three of the girls whip into a stunned lull, palpable fear hanging between them.

“Okay, everyone needs to just settle down,” Alex says.

“I’m sorry,” Ashlyn whispers. She adjusts her tight grip on the thin steering wheel.

“Me too,” Alex responds.

“I am also sorry,” Ali speaks up.

“Are you serious?” Alex retorts.

“I should have said somezing,” Ali mumbles. Alex looks to Ashlyn, trying to gauge how she’ll respond. The atmosphere is warming, everyone thankful to be free from harm. Ashlyn just blinks, her eyelashes a clump of dark beauty amidst her stern face.

“Thanks,” she says. Her voice is even, cool. Alex makes an audible sigh.

“Let’s go to my house and rest up before the game,” Alex suggests.

Ashlyn nods, checks her surroundings before backing slowly out of the parking spot.

+

Later that night, in the bleachers watching the basketball game with the rest of the school, Ali presses her knee sideways into Ashlyn’s. It’s a subtle gesture; everyone around them is too entranced in the quick game to notice anything. Ali’s inviting the closeness, Ashlyn knows this. Alex is huddled just as flush to Ali on her other side, but Ali keeps asserting their touch millimeter by millimeter. Ashlyn puts her forearm on her own thigh, but lets the side of it fall onto Ali’s lap.

Ashlyn follows the uniforms on the court with her eyes, not letting her neck crook even a fraction of the way towards the other female. She’s enjoying it too much to draw any attention to it, like if she acknowledges anything, it’ll fly away like the seconds on the scoreboard. Some students have made note of her presence there already, but none have spoken to her. Not a single person has come up to ask where she’s been, if she’s coming back. She almost wonders whether they were noticing her clothes, or the girl under them. It simultaneously infuriates and soothes her. It’s what she wanted, right? Invisibility.

Next thing, their legs are matched, down to Ashlyn’s loafers and Ali’s stolen bobby socks. Ashlyn wants to stay stoic; she’s afraid everything’s visible on her face. Maybe it’s a lingering fear stirred up from the department store earlier, but it seizes Ashlyn’s chest. She can’t make her mind focus on anything but their bodies skirting the boarders. It makes her positively titillated in a way she hasn’t felt since the first night she snuck over to Lucy’s.  
Ashlyn sort of assumed Ali would stay over at Alex’s house after the game. She drives automatically back to their street, Alex gossiping to them both without breaking for air until Ashlyn pulls into Alex’s driveway. It’s then that Alex informs them that she can’t invite them in because she’s got some family obligation early in the morning. Alex pouts, wishes them a good night, and drudges inside, not wanting her evening to be over. Ali’s in the backseat, but Ashlyn doesn’t give her time to move up front.

“You can stay at my house tonight if you want,” Ashlyn makes eye contact with Ali through the rearview mirror.

“You’re sure?” Ali asks.

"Only if you want,” Ashlyn flounders. Ali pushes at her hair, combs her fingers through the front section with a delicate angle to her wrist.

“That’s very kind. I’d like to, thank you,” Ali says.

Ashlyn’s parents are still up in the living room, listening to the radio and reading the newspaper together. After a quick phone call, in German, to her mother to assure her she’s safe for the night, she asks to use the restroom. Ashlyn sends her to the half bath just down the hall from the living room and starts for her room. Her parents call her back into the living room.

Her mom removes her reading glasses and stares at Ashlyn for a long moment.

“What,” Ashlyn asks, testily.

“Please don’t stay up too late,” her mother requests. Ashlyn can’t tell if her mother is biting back what she really wants to say, if maybe she’s picked up on something Ashlyn was politely trying to overlook. Ashlyn has a brief flash of shame, like her parents know she’s not in her right mind, blinded with desire.

“We won’t,” Ashlyn assures. She looks her mother in the eye and wins, as always. She intercepts Ali in the hallway and leads her to the basement door, tugging on the light switch as she descends the stairs. She shuts the basement door behind them.

“Your room is here?” Ali asks, confused.

“No, no, this is my station,” Ashlyn explains. She flicks on the light to illuminate the large tabletop littered with parts. There’s a clear space in the middle, with a silver desk lamp at the ready.

“What is it all?” Ali touches the edge of the table.

“Transmitters. Receivers. Your basic bells and whistles,” Ashlyn shrugs. She perches on her maple stool. She watches Ali graze the cool metal parts.

“Radios,” Ali notes.

“I guess I’m an airwave junky. Just something I picked up without, you know. School. Or work. Don’t tell too many people, it’s kind of my guilty pleasure,” Ashlyn tries at a joke. Ali looks at her blankly, but smiles without a laugh.

“What do you want to hear?” Ali asks. Ashlyn’s caught in her gaze. She reads too far into it.

“I don’t know,” she admits.

“Music? The police?” Ali suggests.

“Oh, um, it’s not. It doesn’t matter. It’s just,” Ashlyn breathes, “It’s exciting to build one from scratch and then make it sing.”

Ali’s eyes are doeish and even though the light is so dim, so cavernous, they glisten when she smiles.

Ashlyn can’t make one work, so they decide to tuck in. When they emerge from the basement, Ashlyn’s parents have turned off the lights except for the ones leading to Ashlyn’s room. Ash stops in the hall closet to grab spare linens. She has a double bed, but still makes a palate on the floor next to it. She insists Ali take the bed.

“We are uneven,” Ali says to the ceiling. Ashlyn’s lying flat on her back too, one arm crooked under the pillow.

“What?” Ashlyn checks.

“You share a secret to me, and then I share one to you back. We’re even,” Ali explains.

“Oh,” Ash says.

  
“So, what should it be?” Ali asks.

“I, I don’t know,” Ashlyn tries.

“Well what do you want to know?” Ali levels. She turns on her side, leans up just a little on her elbow. She looks down at Ashlyn with a reserved sureness to her shoulders. Her body is swimming in Ashlyn’s old nightgown. Ali looks impish, like a strange dream Ashlyn could’ve imagined, in the borrowed frock. Ashlyn’s comforted by the darkness of her room, lets her vision linger on the lumps of the blanket that suggest Ali’s hips.

“Maybe, you could tell me about the last time you kissed someone,” Ashlyn squeaks. Ali’s laugh is deep and rolling, like a purr.

“Just before I left Germany, my friend Mary and I are very close,” Ali says.

“The first time?” Ashlyn prompts.

“No, we had kissed before. And more,” Ali admits. Ashlyn’s stomach knots up, fluttering her pulse to a ragged beat. The darkness is forgiving, conceals her hand pressing devilishly at her own hip.

“How much more?” Ash chances.

“We kissed. We lay in bed together, kiss and touch. It was natural, just friendly. We touched each other, like kittens,” Ali offers.

“You mean, like…” Ashlyn’s voice stalls. Ali nods, even in the darkness Ashlyn can see.

“Pussy?” Ashlyn says.

“Oh,” Ali chirps. “Oh, I mean, how is it, we paw. Our hands like paws, we touch each other,” Ali explains.

“Oh,” Ashlyn repeats.

“Girls in Germany are not like you girls in America. Friends are more open, to touching,” Ali moves.

“Maybe you don’t know the right American girls,” Ashlyn offers.

“Oh? Why do you say this?” Ali counters.

“Some girls are like that, they, you know, want to touch. Be touched. I mean, maybe by you,” Ashlyn says.

“It’s not as popular here,” Ali says, simply.

“No, not popular for sure. But, I think, there are some girls who, you know,” Ashlyn trails off.

“Like other girls,” Ali states. Ashlyn’s lip trembles.

“Right,” she agrees.

“Do you?” Ali asks outright.

“Um, I, yeah. I s’pose,” Ashlyn chokes. “I have, before.”

“It’s natural. There are many before you,” Ali says. She’s trying to comfort, Ashlyn knows this. But the darkness has thinned out, her pupils big and open. She can see Ali clearly, can see the whites of her eyes because she’s looking down at Ashlyn. Ashlyn tries to look anywhere else but it’s impossible.

“I guess,” Ashlyn whispers.

“We are uneven again,” Ali says.

“Yeah,” Ashlyn agrees. “Guess that’s not a secret anymore,” she chuckles.

“I could tell you a secret I have now?” Ali suggests.

“Well you have to, to become even,” Ashlyn repeats. Ashlyn’s almost afraid to engage, something fighting the impulsivity inside her. She turns to her side also, tucks her hands under her cheek near the pillow.

“You remind me of Mary,” Ali says. It’s not what Ash was expecting.

“Oh, that’s, thanks?” Ashlyn manages.

“You are tall, blonde like her,” Ali elaborates.

“So I look like her,” Ashlyn says.

“And how you act. You’re similar,” Ali tries.

“Well, maybe you’ll like me as much as you liked her,” Ashlyn intimates.

“I think I do,” Ali vows.

“I, thanks,” Ashlyn mutters. With Lucy she wasn’t this awkward. She was smooth, forward. Maybe it's age that changes things. The closeness in age with Ali makes Ashlyn want to retain something innocent, something untainted between them. But Ali’s being coy with her language, weaving a thread of seduction so fine that Ashlyn’s stuck, tongue-tied.

“Alright,” Ali says. It’s not a question, but Ash treats it like one.

“Yeah, I’m sleepy,” Ashlyn whispers.

“Okay,” Ali reasons. Ashlyn turns on her back again, pulls the blanket higher over her shoulders. Ali stretches a little, stays on her side where she’s looking down towards Ashlyn.

“Well G’night,” Ashlyn says, meekly. To Ashlyn’s great astonishment, Ali reaches her hand down towards her. Ashlyn snakes her left hand out from the blanket, grasps Ali’s four fingers like an awkward hand shake. Ali squeezes back, giddy yet comforting. Ashlyn drops their contact first.

“Good night, Ashlyn,” Ali coos. She turns over to her other side gently. Ashlyn has an awful, consuming fantasy of pressing those distant soft fingers to her lips until she can see the moon from her bedroom window. She falls asleep sometime after, gazing at the full, bright body.

+

Ashlyn starts picking them up from school after the homecoming game. Her parents aren’t thrilled about it, they think she should be otherwise occupied. But Jeri’s in the play and Alex will not ride the school bus, so Ashlyn feels obligated to help her get home safely. And if Ali just so happens to be jumping in the backseat, then it’s nothing Ashlyn can help.

That next weekend is Halloween. Ashlyn doesn’t mind dressing up; it’s an excuse to be something else. She tucks some khakis into her work boots, loops a white scarf around her neck, and tops it off with her safety goggles from Chemistry lab.

“Amelia Earhart!” Ali yelps when she answers Alex’s door. Ash has her duffle bag slung over her shoulder.

“Yeah, trick or treat,” Ashlyn says. It’s more of a flippant phrase but Ali answers.

“Treats, always,” she intones, stepping aside. Alex is applying her second coat of eyeliner when Ashlyn drops her bag by the corner of the bed.

“Shake it,” Ashlyn demands of her. Alex rotates her hips in practiced circles, the heavily adorned sash making a glorious jangle.

“You’ll have to help me tie my headscarf,” Alex insists. She turns back to her vanity mirror, pulling on the corner of her left eye.

“I don’t associate with gypsies. I’m an American hero,” Ashlyn boasts, hands to her hips.

“A true American hero would respect all persons,” Alex snaps, genuine tone to her voice.

“God Bless America!” Ali chirps, exaggerating her accent. “Can I have some lipstick?” Ali asks.

Alex hands her a tube wordlessly her from bulging make up bag. Ashlyn sits down on the bed, plays with the frayed threads at the edge of her scarf.

“You want?” Ali turns to Ash.

“No thanks,” Ashlyn dismisses.

“Come on,” Alex says without turning around. She flicks her hair back, thumbing her hairline.

“Live a little!” Alex insists.

“Yeah!” Ali joins.

“I mean, I don’t think it’ll last,” Ashlyn levels. She makes a point to look right at Ali, but it goes unnoticed. She’s not going to let a moment pass by like the one last weekend in the dark.

Ashlyn crosses the room to shut the door firmly. She unzips her duffle quickly, unwraps the glass bottle from her Christmas sweater.

“I brought this,” she whispers. Ali’s eyes light up.

“Whiskey!” she says. Her voice is almost too loud; it causes Alex to whip around, fiendishly.

“What?” Alex checks. It’s hardly a question; she reaches out first. “Gimme.” Of course, Ashlyn’s no fool. She takes the first swig for herself.

They make it out of the house just fine. Alex’s parents have friends over, sharing laughs and hors d’oeuvres. The front door is practically open. Alex is excellent, brandishing her veils and noisy accessories with great fervor. They aren’t really trick-or-treating as much as snooping on everyone else. Alex leads the way, practically galloping ahead.

“Whoops,” Ali sings, sidestepping so she runs into Ashlyn.

“Why are you wearing those?” Ashlyn notes, eyes downcast to Ali’s kitten heels. A group of dressed up children pass by them on the sidewalk, hustling to the next house.

“It’s my costume,” Ali says simply. She’s shimmied into a vintage dress, borrowed from Alex’s mom. The fringe tiers down her abdomen, swaying with Ali’s lackadaisical swagger. She stops on the sidewalk, does the Charleston to illustrate the point.

“Did you both purposefully pick costumes that require you to dance around all night?” Ashlyn says, loudly. Alex stops too, swivels her hips almost violently. The bells escalate around her waist.

They don’t get much candy, mostly because Ashlyn’s the only one with the wherewithal to remember the pillow case with which to collect it. Ali and Alex are lightweights, to say the very least. Ashlyn has a flask tucked in her waistband, but doesn’t have time to pull from it.

Once the sun goes down, it’s more than a challenge to keep Alex close by. She keeps running off, ringing a doorbell twice before she realizes she doesn’t have a vessel for her spoils. Most neighbors have been handing her fistfuls of Tootsie Rolls before Ash and Ali make it to the door.

At a particularly uninhabited stretch of block, the silence is methodically cut by Alex’s bells.

“I like that,” Ashlyn adds. “You’re like a cow. We’ll always know where you are.”

“Can it,” Alex zips. “I’m a graceful gypsy queen. I never stay in one place for too long,” she explains. She curls her vowels, but her voice is still that distinct, rasped melody.

“Are there gypsies in Germany?” Ashlyn asks. She heaves the pillowcase over her right shoulder. Ali’s walking so close, side-by-side, but not a straight line.

“Sure. There are gypsies here,” Ali answers. The headband she has stretched across her forehead keeps slipping down over her brow. She pushes it back up, setting her hair into place. Ash can tell Ali’s getting frustrated with her costume. The costume beads are loud around her neck; they clack with each measured step. She’ll have blisters from the shoes tomorrow, most likely.

They’re heading back to Alex’s house when they catch some younger kids opening a carton of eggs in front of a neighbor’s place. Even though she’s taken Ashlyn’s elbow two blocks back, Ali doesn’t limp at all when she starts for the three troublemakers. They drop the carton of eggs on their feet when Ali yells.

“Hey! Stop that, you fucking punks!” she screams. Alex jumps right in, goes to run after the kids while waving her scarves in the air. The kids retreat, leaving only the carton of runny, broken eggs.

“German girl’s gonna kick your ass!” Alex yells into the night. Then adds her own, “Fuckin’ punks!”

Ashlyn’s too busy laughing to care that this particular group of houses seems to be tucked in for the night. They all have to pick themselves up off the ground when the porch light flicks on unexpectedly. Ali’s the last one to run up to Alex’s driveway, barefoot, with her heels hooked around her forefingers.

Inside, Alex’s parents are dancing slowly in the living room. The radio’s crooning something sad but beautiful. Alex doesn’t bat an eye, just barrels past the living room and down the hallway quickly. But Ali stops, dead in her tracks. She can’t look away, can’t get past the scene of such tender love. It hits Ashlyn then, drunkenly, that Alex just doesn’t realize how lucky she is. The look on Ali’s face twists Ash’s stomach into inconceivable knots.  
She wouldn’t have known such sorrow existed before the pieces of this complex puzzle fell into place. Ashlyn always knew shitty things would happen in life; she had been inundated by the war’s heavy destruction since she was in junior high. But silently, her life had been flowering. Even though she was quiet, Alex had made her insides sing.

Alex’s constant idealism gave her the ability to fit into and shape her own life so seamlessly. Alex's simultaneous disdain and activism, her abhorrence for the war but dependence on its awful structure, had subtly become part of Ashlyn too. Alex had convinced her to work at the factory that summer before she dropped out. Alex had given her the shoulder to cry on when it went south. And now Alex had facilitated her friendship with the most beautiful woman she’s ever met and that woman feels things that Ash should never even name. It makes her head spin to think of the breadth of Ali’s life. She can’t even find the words to say that she’s sorry that life is unfair. That some girls lose their dads earlier than they ever should. That some girls don’t get to come home and ignore their parents and still have breakfast with them at the same kitchen table the next morning. That some girls just don’t have it that easy.

Ash puts her hand at the fringe skimming the small of Ali’s back. Ali wipes at her cheeks, tries to be inconspicuous. It’s daring, but Ashlyn takes the flask from her belt when she turns the corner to the hallway. She’ll taste like a sour mash but it’s alright. Ali’s leaning into her, so close and trusting. The light in Alex’s room is on, spilling into the hallway, because she’s already in the bathroom, scrubbing off the layers of makeup. The soft trumpets from the radio in the living room are floating through the air, lingering like a sigh of relief. And under it all, the steady tick of the grandfather clock pumps the heartbeat of the night like an ethereal metronome.

And for the record, even though Ali pulls the scarf to bring her closer, it’s Ashlyn that leans in to kiss her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on livejournal for the 2012 Holiday Fic Exchange at footballslash. Please maintain the integrity of this piece and do not share on other platforms without author's express permission. 
> 
> This was written for the lovely flickings. Because she deserves all the adorable bbyhorse the world has to offer. 
> 
> The title is a play on "It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World" by James Brown which is not contemporary to the piece. But hey, you can't win em all! 
> 
> I appreciate all feedback and I thank you sincerely for reading!


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